


The dice

by Umerue



Series: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Roshan Lavellan [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: The Last Court
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, And clueless Dirthamen, Crossdressing, Dashing Duke, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Misunderstandings, Orlais, Orlesian Chevaliers, Romance, Tirashan forest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 01:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15062411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umerue/pseuds/Umerue
Summary: A story where Ser Elgar'nan Evanuris loses his younger son in a game of dice to Duke of Tirashan, who is actually a sixteen-year-old girl just pretending to be a chevalier to avoid harrasment from his/her brothers-in-arms. Court balls, duels and constant misunderstandings lead the Duchess to yearn for lovely and smart Dirthamen, while Dirthamen falls in love with the Duchess (whom he thinks is a Duke) against his will and better intentions. Includes Gaspard bromance, dashing chevaliers, court intrigue and a happy ending.





	The dice

The atmosphere at Blanche’s was rowdy, like one might expect. It was the night before the chevaliers of Orlais would ride to repel Nevarra’s invasion of Larecolte, and the officers accompanying valiant Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons had gathered at the gentleman’s club for one last night of dice, cards and revelry.

At Blanche’s gaming tables, many a fortune had been made and lost. As a knight of Orlais, a chevalier was a man above the law, and many of them enjoyed past times other, lesser men might have found too foolhardy or dangerous. Much to chagrin of his wife and children, baronet Elgar’nan Evanuris, a Chevalier-Commander hailing from Emprise du Lion, was one of them. His nature had made him fast friends and brother-in-arms with Grand Duke Gaspard’s late father, Theodore de Chalons, and even though he had already retired from active service, Ser Elgar’nan’s valiant deeds made him welcome at the club. He had told many stories of past battles, toasted for the victory, and then moved to gaming tables where it soon became obvious that the luck was not with him today.

He had already lost a remarkable sum of money to Duke of Tirashan, a newcomer from the far edge of Orlais. Tirashan had gone through Academie des Chevaliers with Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, stealing Ser Elgar’nan’s distinction of being the first elf to be accepted among blessed ranks of honourable. Nobody had ever heard of the Duke, who did not take part in the delights of the court, but it was rumoured that he had saved Grand Duke Gaspard’s life personally when assassins had attacked the young chevalier-in-training in order to remove de Chalons from the Grand Game. Ever since that day, the Duke and the Grand Duke had been close friends, keeping each other’s secrets and guarding their backs. It was rumoured that Tirashan had brought a cavalry unit of _harts_ from his duchy. Harts! The very notion of harts insulted Ser Elgar’nan, but since he was only a baronet and Tirashan was a duke, the difference of their positions meant he could not demand satisfaction through duel. He had chosen the dice instead, and now he was too deep in debt to stop before recouping his losses.  
“Father.”, his son and heir, Falon’Din, was hissing in his ear. “Stop it! You are losing Andruil’s dowry!”  
“I would not endanger your daughter’s future happiness for a game, Ser Elgar’nan.”, Tirashan said, stretching his shoulders gracefully like a cat. “Besides, I do not lack for money. What about different wager, then?”  
“I have never backed down from a challenge, Your Grace!”, Ser Elgar’nan announced loudly, earning the admiration of his peers.  
“One round of Poulet, playing for the higher number. I shall put all your previous losses as my stake. If I lose, you may have them back. If I win, I may request any single thing from your household.”, Tirashan laid out the wager. “Do you consent?”  
Feeling his blood rush hotly in his veins, Ser Elgar’nan shrugged off his son who was frantically pulling on his sleeve and shouted.  
“Yes!”  
“Boivin, write down the wager in the book of games, and put my name as a witness.”, Grand Duke Gaspard smiled, holding up a toast. “Death before dishonour!”  
“Death before the dishonour!”, chevaliers cried out, and a set of ivory dice were brought out.  
“The challenger goes first.”, Grand Duke Gaspard decreed. All eyes were on Tirashan, when he took the dice in hand, and threw them on the green velveteen. The dice rolled, and then stopped at four and two.  
“Six for Duke of Tirashan.”, Boivin, the keeper of the club book, announced.  
“This shall be easier victory than fighting the Nevarrans.”, Ser Elgar’nan stated, unable to hide his smile for the duke’s bad throw. Seven out of twelve, and he would win back everything he had lost.  
He sipped his drink, and took the dice in hand, throwing them with a sharp flick of a wrist. He heard his son’s sharp breath first, and only then Ser Elgar’nan looked at the dice. The black eyes on the ivory dice were three, and two, and he was ruined.

 

\--

The smoking room at Blanche’s was quiet this late at night. Most young chevaliers had decided to seek comfort of a woman’s arms for their last night in Val Royeaux, and those unlucky at gaming tables had left to ponder their remaining options in the privacy of their own homes. Currently, the smoking room was inhabited only by the Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons and his victorious friend, Duke of Tirashan, who were sampling a new batch of imported Antivan cigars.  
“You were lucky tonight, Lavellan.”, the Grand Duke remarked.  
The duke sighed, blowing a ring of smoke.  
“I pity the poor man, and I don’t have the faintest idea of what to request. I do not wish to ruin him, even if he was hell-set on ruining himself.”  
“Your heart is too soft, gavroche.”, the Grand Duke shook his head. He inhaled, enjoying the warm, rustic smell of quality cigar, and continued. “You know my stance on the Grand Game. I detest it, but if we do not play it well, our enemies will make us look like villains. Celine is not pleased with the war or my leadership. She has a delicate nature, like women do.”  
The duke sniffed.  
“I didn’t mean you.”, Gaspard said. “I have kept your secret ever since you saved my life in Jader, and will continue to do so. But I have heard that Celene and her allies, namely her pet Briala, has been looking into old archives from Drakon’s times.”  
Tirashan’s eyes flashed.  
“My family has always kept to Drakon’s demands. We have passed the duchy from mother to daughter, as agreed when he sent his chevaliers to our forest. It is not our fault he never got around marrying any of my ancestors to his sons to steal our land.”  
“Your family gifts might have had something with it.”, Gaspard noted, not insulted.  
“Might be.”, Tirashan agreed with a wry smile.  
“But I would not be a true friend to you if I didn’t warn you. Celene is snooping. It might be better if you corrected their misunderstanding quietly before they try to cause a scandal and decry your right for Tirashan. When Celine realizes her failure, she might try to remove your support from me by different means. Prosper de Montfort, for example, is a widower and in great need of money to finance his incessant parties and hunts. He is an ally of Celene’s, and I’ve heard him wonder what kind of prey Tirashan might hold.”  
The duke hissed.  
“I would never allow a rogue like de Montfort into my woods! He would rampage around like a giant, ruining everything! If he tries, I will challenge him to duel and--”  
“And if you perish, Tirashan will fall to Celene’s hands.”, Gaspard finished. He tapped ash from his cigar against the silver ashtray, and continued: “You need to marry, Lavellan. Preferably to a poor man with suitable birth yet no power on his own. A poor gentleman would be grateful for the honour, and understand that his lot in life depends on your success. We ride to war tomorrow, but engagement would not require more than few words on a parchment.”  
“I do not have eligible young men in my pocket, Chalons.”, the duke remarked dryly. “The fact that everyone believes I’m a man has kept me from buying a white muslin to make my debut in Val Royeaux season.”  
“I would not ask you to stay behind to put on a pretty dress and dance a remigold; who would have my back in the war against invaders, then?  Celene has made me promise that I can’t spend more than a thousand Orlesian lives, and I absolutely need you. There is much more convenient solution to the problem. Ser Elgar’nan owns you a favour, and he has two sons, one of them unmarried. A son is ‘thing in his house’ isn’t it?”  
The duke drew smoke in her lungs, starting to cough violently.  
 The Grand Duke stood up to slap his friend on the back.  
“Do not suffocate, Lavellan!”   
“I was thinking more along the lines of asking for a horse, or a dog.”, his friend managed to say.

\--  


The lot of the second son of an impoverished family was a cruel indeed, Dirthamen sighed when he opened a newspaper to read the classifieds section. He had finished his studies in the famed halls of University of Orlais a month ago, when his stipend awarded for ‘talented yet impoverished young gentlemen with a good birth’ had ran out. He had no wish to spend his life to educate thick-headed idiots as a gentleman tutor in someone else’s home, but all he had was his respectable name, pleasant features and a quick mind.  
  
Dirthamen was the second son of baronet Elgar’nan Evanuris, and his older twin brother, Falon’Din was the heir for their modest estate by the privilege of being born two minutes earlier. The Evanuris family had lost their fortune due to grandfather who was unlucky at gaming tables, leaving his heir to scrape by with income of 2,000 sovereigns a year. Even though lady Evanuris worked tirelessly to better their position, she had told Dirthamen early on that all she could do to her younger son was to give him a splendid education and impeccable manners. Lady Evanuris had succeeded excellently at first, and somewhat failed in her second task, but everyone agreed the failing was not due to lady Evanuris’ efforts but Dirthamen’s mischievous, mercurial nature.

A bitter man might have been jealous of his brother’s better fortune, but Dirthamen did not begrudge the recent match with Comtesse Vivienne; the lady in question was wealthy and aristocratic, but she would lead Falon’Din to a merry dance and make his days a living Void from breakfast to evening tea. Their parents’ marriage had been mercurial at times, given Ser Elgar’nan’s penchant to overly dramatic behaviour – a trait his wife accused he had passed to his children – and lady Evanuris’ wish to effectively run household, and in Dirthamen’s opinion, his brother’s arrangement with his bride was going to be equally volatile. Personally, he would have sought for a lady of sweeter nature, but it was why he was the second son and not the oldest. Falon’Din had proposed Comtesse Vivienne a week ago in the rose garden. After her joyful yes, the bride had wished to discuss upcoming engagement party arrangements with her future mother-in-law. One look at lady Evanuris’ tightened jawline at breakfast had confirmed Dirthamen that it was time for him to set out on his own before a war broke out in the household.

His unwilling search for employment was interrupted by Abelas, their butler.  
“Mr Dirthamen, Ser Elgar’nan requests your presence in the library at once.”, the man stood, looking even more gravelly than usual.    
“I’m not going to sell another of my books to pay for his debts. Grandfather left them to _me_.”, Dirthamen said annoyedly. He knew that father had been at Blanche’s last night, probably gambling. Falon’Din had muttered something about utter ruin when he had crashed in Dirthamen’s bed, too drunk to remember where his own door was.  
“There is a visitor of rank.”, the butler warned, making Dirthamen’s stomach lurch. Please not the ‘History of Magic in the Chantry’, or ‘War of Elves and Men: How All Magic Was Lost 9:42 Dragon’. If he had to give up something, the only book he could part with without breaking his heart was ‘The History of Ferelden Mabari’, and Dirthamen doubted an Orlesian nobleman would want that.

His father was sitting by the table, leaning his head against his hands, and his mother’s mouth was a thin line. The glistening in lady Evanuris’ eyes alarmed Dirthamen even more than a short chevalier standing in front of the bookshelf, studying the titles there.  
“Mr. Dirthamen.”, the butler announced. “His Grace the Duke of Tirashan.”  
“My Lord Duke.”, Dirthamen said, bowing low.  
“Mr. Dirthamen. Your parents told me that these titles are yours?”, the Duke inquired, running his fingers along the spines of his books.  
“Yes, Your Grace. My mother’s father left his collection to me in his will.”  
“It is not complete. You miss the third part of History of Magick here.”, the Duke pointed at the empty hole “and ‘the Compilation of Lost Spells’.”  
“Yes.”, Dirthamen said through his teeth, watching the man fondle his books. Unable to keep it inside, he added sharply: “Unfortunately, my attempts to gather knowledge have been often compromised by the dice at Blanche’s. Even though I’m not a member of the club, that esteemed establishment has a habit of causing even more holes in my collection.”  
The duke considered him. He had blue eyes, and Dirthamen saw a hint of red hair under the plumed hat.  
“It’s a pity. You clearly have interest in rare books. These titles have been well loved.”  
“Interest isn’t worth much without a chance to act on it.”, Dirthamen replied bitterly.  
The duke nodded, and turned towards Ser Elgar’nan.  
“He will do.”, the man said simply. “My lawyer will be in touch with details of the arrangement. These books will do for the dowry.”  
“What?”, Dirthamen cried out. He would not, he could not give his books so Andruil could marry a duke!  
“Your father lost you in a game of dice last night. I think it would be terribly rude to ask for your hand in these circumstances since you can’t say no, so I’m simply stating our engagement here. You may write to me, and I will call on you once I’m back from the war.”, the Duke told Dirthamen.  
His words pushed Dirthamen into the depths of terrible shock, and the poor young man stared at the chevalier, unable to believe his own ears.  
“Your Grace. I’m not… I’m not that kind of man.”, he stuttered.  
“Good. Neither am I.”, The corner of the duke’s mouth turned upwards, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. “Farewell, Mr. Dirthamen.”  
With a nod to his parents, and a light kiss on the back of Dirthamen’s hand which was limp from the shock, the duke smiled and withdrew his august presence from Evanuris Hall.

 

After he stole a bottle of dwarven whiskey from his father’s cupboard, deciding he had earned it after finding out his own father had lost him in a dice game, Dirthamen attempted to decide how to deal with the newest shock his father’s unfortunate gambling habit had brought into his life. Marrying a duke was excellent, on the paper. Marrying a man was far less so. The traditional way of a noble couple going their own separate ways after an heir and a spare would be complicated, since the heir wasn’t coming, and it made Dirthamen seriously suspect his suitor’s sanity. Everyone knew that country nobles were prone to ill-advised choices like keeping mad ex-wives locked in the attic, and Tirashan was as remote as the region of Orlais could be. It was worrying, and Dirthamen felt strongly that a man like him flourished best in civilized environment with many libraries, teahouses and a university. The closest town, Serault, didn’t even have a Chantry because it had been closed after the Marquis became an abomination. Which was technically impossible, since everyone knew Maker had taken magic away from the world after the war between Elves and Men, where heretical Elven God Fen’Harel tried to bring down the Veil. Dirthamen was shrewd enough to understand that an abomination was likely a dramatization or political slur since no magic meant no abominations, but it didn’t make him any eager to move even further into woods. Woods had snakes, critters and cold bathwater in primitive little huts.

He did not look forward to marrying a madman, and when Dirthamen attempted to calm his fears by purchasing a copy of ‘The Thousand-Windowed Castle: The History of Serault and Surrounding Regions’ from the Black Emporium, his favourite bookstore, it only made things worse. There was a story of Shame, of course, but the book was littered with unpleasantries like claiming there was a secret cult worshipping ‘Masked Andraste’, and the woods were filled with whispers, bloodthirsty elves and worse. Brother Genitivi went far enough to write that Duchess of Tirashan kept a court of dryads and feys in Deepwood. Her servants were silent humans, whose eyes were grown shut with moss, and flower bloomed from their skin. Her spouse was a spirit of Fade called the Horned Lord, and all their daughters carried magic in their blood. Dirthamen was almost losing faith in his favourite author, scolding Genitivi for losing his critical appraising skills, when he read the last sentence of the chapter. “The stories of Deepwood Court are likely based on the racial tensions between elves and humans, and also aggravated by the fact that Duchy of Tirashan is passed from mother to daughter as outlined in the treaty with Emperor Drakon.”  
Dirthamen closed the book and smiled. Knowledge was power, and Brother Genitivi might just have shown a way out of this mess. Even though marrying a man was not illegal, albeit extremely rare, posing as a noble was entirely different issue. Dirthamen could not undo the wager made at chevaliers’ club, but chevaliers had many faults, including a code of conduct which called death before dishonour. Faking a noble title certainly counted as a dishonour.

When the news of Grand Duke Gaspard’s army driving off the Nevarran invaders, and reclaiming the town of Larecolte by beating the Nevarran commander in single combat arrived to Val Royeaux, Dirthamen made a visit to Historical Archives of University of Orlais. He was well-known there from his studies, and when he requested the librarian to allow him to study the noble houses established during the reign of Emperor Drakon, he noticed something curious on the list of borrowers. There were only a few names, and all except the latest were dated many years ago. Duke Prosper de Montfort, Empress Celene’s cousin, had requested the same copies yesterday.

The papers proved very enlightening, confirming his suspicion. The agreement between Geldauran of Tirashan and the Emperor Drakon stated clearly that the line of elven leaders would last only as long as the title and lands were passed from mother to a daughter in unbroken line. A son or a husband could not inherit, or the forest would be given to the Crown.

When Dirthamen got home, he went to Ser Elgar’nan’s study, and took a sheet of paper to write to his suitor.  
“My Lord Duke,  
I know who you are, and I will not be beholden to fake marriage. I expect you to reveal the truth. I won’t keep your secret if you lie.  
  
D.E.”

\--

“ _I will not be beholden to fake marriage. I won’t keep your secret if you lie_. Oh.”, the duke of Tirashan let out a very feminine, soft sigh while his valet was untying the duke’s cravat from an elaborate knot of current fashion. “Stars have mercy on me; I didn’t think he would have it in him. This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever been told. He wishes to marry me for real!”  
His manservant, who was leaning against the dressing room wall, made a disapproving noise, but the duke ignored it. He held the letter in his hand, and his blue eyes softened.  
“Daern’thal, do I have any dresses here? Anything pretty?”, the duke inquired hopefully.  
“No.”, his manservant answered dryly. “You know well that Val Royeaux is full of bards snooping around. Keeping pearls and pretty dresses in your wardrobe would be almost as bad as packing staffs and spell books.”  
“Don’t be so vile, Senris.”, the duke scolded his manservant, putting the letter down to allow his valet to take off his waistcoat. “I admit it was a good idea to let people think I’m a man when I entered the Academie des Chevaliers. Being beaten before I became friends with Gaspard was bad enough, but at least I wasn’t violated. Some of my less honourable brothers are not known of their kindness towards elven women. But I’m not in the academy anymore, and women can study there. It’s not like I have ever _lied_. They just keep misunderstanding, and I don’t correct them.”  
The duke looked dreamy, leaning against his elbow.  
“To think that I fooled all those people for years, and he figured it out after only one meeting. Mr. Dirthamen is _so smart_. And handsome, too.”  
His valet, who was just undoing the tight fabric binding the duke’s breasts, exchanged looks with the manservant. By blasted Sylvans, this was bad.  
“Find me a pretty gown, and I shall invite Mr. Dirthamen for a walk. We are already engaged; there is no harm done.”, the lovesick duke announced.  
“Maybe for a tea.”, the valet said carefully. “The backyard of the townhouse is not big enough for a proper walk. The neighbours would see.”  
“And you will leave the drawing room door open.”, the manservant added.  
“Why? You let me to go to a house of ill repute with other chevaliers and didn’t ask anything about doors!”, the duke exclaimed, turning to look at Senris. “When I graduated, I picked up a mistress from the opera, and you didn’t say anything then, either! Just advised that I should lie about wanting to learn how to please a lady, so I wouldn’t need to take my clothes off!”  
“They were entirely different things. You were a man, then.”, the manservant said firmly.  
“Your late mother would never forgive us if your honour was besmirched.”, the valet chorused.  
“I’m not convinced of that.”, the duke of Tirashan mused. “Mother was very free with her affections.”  
“It was best if you went to bed now, Your Grace. I promise to look into dress issue tomorrow. A cream white court dress, perhaps, for the opening of the Season.”, the valet suggested.  
“Yes.”, the duke sighed, taking his letter in hand while he headed towards his bed. “Cream white would be nice. I am almost seventeen now, and it’s certainly old enough for a court dress.”

\--

Because of the war, Val Royeaux Season opened later than usually, but kept to tradition by beginning with a ball in the imperial palace. The Evanuris Hall was a centre of storm of lace, velvet and white muslin. Falon’Din’s lucky marriage to Comtesse Vivienne had opened a chance to introduce Miss Andruil to higher society and hope she would make equally advantageous connection as her brothers.

Dirthamen, too, was going to the ball. He had received a reply from his dishonest suitor.  
_“I was delighted to receive your letter. To think I have fooled people for years, but you figured it out after only one meeting! I can’t but admire your mind, and the strong moral standing behind your reasoning. I have decided to fulfil your request at the Opening Ball of the Season. You must attend to see I keep my word like a chevalier. Tirashan.”_

Even though Dirthamen could make little sense out of the duke’s letter, he was a bit flattered by the compliments. It was nice feeling to know that his talents were appreciated, even though his fine reasoning and strong morals had led the duke’s ruin. The duke of Tirashan had to be a very honourable person to admire Dirthamen’s intelligence even in defeat! It was such a pity he was a liar -  and a man, Dirthamen sighed, shaking his head. But nonetheless, he was honor-bound to attend the ball to see this to an end.

Savouring his victory, Dirthamen was on a good mood when he waited in the antechamber with his brother, who had gained a title of a lord through his marriage to Comtesse of Montsimmard, lady Vivienne, and his sister, Andruil, who looked almost docile after threats their mother and new sister-in-law had made. A proper behaviour of a young lady was not one of Andruil’s strengths, but Comtesse was not willing to clothe and feed spinster sisters in her household. Lady Vivienne had made very clear that Andruil would have no more than two seasons to find a match, or she might find her match in becoming the Maker’s Bride and enter a convent. Sylaise, who was a year younger at fourteen, was already terrified. Of Falon’Din’s siblings, Dirthamen was the only one who had Vivienne’s approval due to his connection to the Duke of Tirashan. After tonight, he might need to start looking for tutoring positions again.

The introductions proceeded according to a rank, like all other things in Orlais, and the ball had been already going on for three hours before the Evanuris entourage was admitted inside to bow and curtsey for the Empress Celine. Once the ceremony was done and they were allowed in the ballroom, Dirthamen looked around to find the Duke among the dancers. Or maybe he had been thrown in the jail, already?  
“Can you see the Duke?”, he asked from his siblings.  
Falon’Din, who was still having bad conscience about the dice game, shook his head, but Comtesse Vivienne answered in his stead.  
“There is a gathering of chevaliers next to a golden lion. I heard that the Duke made entrance with Grand Duke Gaspard. Look for the Grand Duke, and you will likely find your fiancé.”  
Grand Duke Gaspard had a reputation of disliking the Game, but it was also said that he was a steadfast friend and cared well for the people under his command. The great revelation must have already happened; the Grand Duke would have been among the first guests to be admitted in the Empress’ presence, which meant they had been here for hours. Dirthamen wasn’t sure if man’s affection towards his friend would overcome the shame of associating with a liar, especially considering the chevaliers’ code. But at least Grand Duke would know what had happened, and maybe he could spare a word to younger son of a minor noble, giving him the news Dirthamen needed to escape this unwanted engagement.

Most of the guests in the ball were masked, like the quality of the evening demanded. A bare face was considered gauche. Dirthamen had done his best with cosmetics; even though Ser Elgar’nan was a baronet, his title was such a minor one that it did not extend the use of courtesy titles or family mask to his children. Unless they married above themselves, or had the luck of being the eldest son who would inherit the title of baronet after Ser Elgar’nan’s death, the Evanuris children were well-born commoners. Dirthamen ignored the glances at his face, and made his way through the crowd towards the lion statue. He recognized the Grand Duke Gaspard from his father’s stories and the family mask hiding the upper half of his face. His sister, the Grand Duchess Florianne, was in attendance too, and just returning from the dance floor with a red-haired lady in a white dress.  
“You still try to lead!”, the Grand Duchess laughed. “You must try to control your urges on the dancefloor, Your Grace.”  
“A chevalier is meant to lead.”, the Grand Duke Gaspard remarked. “It is our Maker-given position in this world.”  
“You can’t deny that you enjoyed our little dip, Your Highness. A chevalier must make his lady’s heart beat faster, otherwise the fight is lost.”, the redhead said.  
“Oh, you are indeed a rake to flirt with me so, Tirashan! And in front of your poor fiancé!”, Grand Duchess Florianne cried.  
Their companion turned around to look at him, and Dirthamen’s mouth went dry. This was not what he had expected to see. For a man, the duke made an almost convincing woman. His hair fell in long waves of dark red down his back, and he wore a young lady’s dancing gown in innocent shade of white. The lips under his ironwood mask looked soft, and inviting.  
“Mr Dirthamen.”, the duke curtseyed a bit clumsily. No matter if he had gone borrowing from Grand Duchess’ cosmetics box, a lifetime of bows did not translate so easily to pretending to be more delicate sex.  
“My Lord Duke. You are far more skilled in the Grand Game than I expected, but I fear I would have loved your honesty more.”, Dirthamen said.  
The duke blushed in flush of pink. It looked quite pretty on his pale skin.  
“It was an oversight of my part, I admit, but I will make effort of not deceiving you in the future. Do you dance a cotillion, Mr. Dirthamen?”  
Glancing at the Duke’s highborn friends, Dirthamen deducted that he would never have a chance to demand the Duke to keep his promise and admit the truth if they could not talk in private. A crowded dance floor was not an ideal setting for that, but he might get a few words between the different parts of the cotillion.  
“Of course.”, he said, taking the duke’s hand and leading him to dancefloor.

Even though Dirthamen was still a bit annoyed at the Duke’s deception, his current lie suited Dirthamen much better. Even though his partner was a man wearing a woman’s dress, at least the Duke had made a true effort of trying to look like an enchanting young lady instead of just slapping on a few beauty spots with overly garish makeup and calling it a day. Dirthamen had worried being pushed into a role of a woman in this false relationship, and he had to admit that seeing the duke to take up the least preferred gender role with unexpected grace was a small relief. Even if it was a lie. A lie, a lie, a lie.

The Duke was a terribly good actor. Was he a bard? Or did the horrendously expensive hand cream which promised small, soft hands of a lady really work? The duke’s hand was calloused, like one would expect from a martial man, but his fingers were narrow and delicate when Dirthamen held them with his own. The duke still tried to lead, like the Grand Duchess had scolded, and forgot the steps in his confusion when Dirthamen moved on the spot of leading partner, but he was quite tiny. Dirthamen had not noticed on their first meeting how short the Duke was. He was smaller than his mother, who was average height for an elven woman!  
He quickly caught him when the Duke stumbled again.  
“Sorry.”, the Duke apologized. “I haven’t danced like this often.”  
“I would expect you have little experience dancing in a dress.”, Dirthamen noted dryly. “Why didn’t you tell me? This was not what I expected today.”  
“I’m sorry.”, the duke muttered, looking down. “I can call it off, if you like. I never planned to gain a husband in a dice game. It was more like an emergency measure for the Game than… some ploy to steal you to my woods.”  
Dirthamen blinked.  
“You would?”, he asked.  
“Making an appearance in front of the Empress today secured my inheritance, and I expect to have some time to consider my next move before Celene tries to marry me off to one of her allies.”, the duke said in small voice. “If you find my lie too distasteful, I shall break off the engagement, and find another way for you to save your book collection from your father than claiming it as a dowry. Women are allowed to change their minds about nuptials unlike men.”  
The music ended, leaving them to stand on the ending position. The duke’s eyes behind the mask looked... hurt. The disappointment was clearly written on his face, and he made a small bow, preparing to leave.  
But Dirthamen had not finished yet; he required a clarification for all this!  
“A quadrille?”, he quickly offered his hand to the Duke.  
“I’d be delighted.”, the duke’s gracious acceptance would have benefitted any debutante.

“The Empress Celene accepted your appearance here as a woman?”, Dirthamen asked in low voice, bending towards the Duke.  
“I don’t think she expected me to do this, but once I did, she could not do anything else but confirm me as the Duchess of Tirashan.  A man can’t inherit Tirashan, and my late mother would never have forgiven me if I allowed our ancestral lands to fall into shemlen hands.”, the Duke spun a slow circle under Dirthamen’s upheld hand.  
“Gaspard knew?”  
“Yes. He has known for years. The rest of my chevalier brothers did not, and some of them are rather put off.”, the duke grimaced.  
“But the Council of Heralds?”  
“My mother dealt with them years ago, when she sent them a letter to register my birth. It is not my fault people don’t bother to study the Council archives and find out that my Andrastian name is Roshan Lavellan.”, the Duke reasoned.  
Dirthamen shook his head, unable to decide whether he was offended or delighted for this magnificent plot the Duke and his mother had cooked up. Probably delighted, he decided. He wasn’t losing anything here.  
“You are quite a charlatan.”, he chuckled.  
“Is it a compliment?”, the duke inquired.  
“This plot of yours could have graced the stage of Grande Royeaux Theatre, and I enjoy watching plays.”, Dirthamen confessed.  
“In that case, thank you.”, the Duke said, and his mischievous smile made a dimple appear on his cheek.

It was frowned upon to dance more than two dances with one partner in an evening, and Dirthamen knew that a third dance would have confirmed their engagement as surely as a public advertisement in a newspaper. When the quadrille ended, Dirthamen took the Duke’s hand, looking around to find Grand Duke Gaspard. He needed to return the Duke to his so-called apron to continue his mischief.

Unfortunately, on his way to Grand Duke Gaspard, Dirthamen ran into his family.  
“Brother! You must introduce us to Duchess of Tirashan!”, Vivienne cried out.  
Dirthamen glared at her. Maker, count it on Vivienne to play along the Duke’s game. His brother’s wife would probably appear as a chevalier herself if she though it would bring her advantage in the court.  
“Your Grace, this is Comtesse of Montsimmard and the Comte of Montsimmard, my brother. My sister, Miss Andruil.”, Dirthamen introduced his family reluctantly. “Vivienne, brother, Andruil, may I introduce His Grace the Duke of Tirashan.”  
“I thought you were a man.”, Andruil said slowly, and then quickly lifted her gloved hand on her mouth to swallow a cry of pain. Vivienne had stomped on her toes.  
“It was simply a matter of personal safety during my time in Acadamie des Chevaliers. Some of my brothers-in-arms use their position above the law in ways which are not commended.”, the duke said coolly.  
“But… Isn’t it dangerous now that they know?”, Andruil asked.  
The duke smiled at her like shark.  
“I’m no longer twelve. You would not believe what difference five years of growing in skill and body can make when one puts her mind to it.”  
“How old are you, Your Grace?”, Dirthamen felt suddenly alarmed.  
“Me? Seventeen. Almost.”, the duke cleared his throat.  
Maker. If this wasn’t another lie, the duke was barely older than Andruil. Vivienne was a decade older than Dirthamen and Falon’Din, but there was a marked difference between twenty-two and sixteen.  
Much to his relief, Dirthamen saw Grand Duke Gaspard entering the ballroom from the garden door and glancing to their way.  
“Your Grace, your friend the Grand Duke is expecting— “, Dirthamen was rudely cut short by a masked man pushing between him and the Duke.  
“Marquis.”, the Duke said, clearly not pleased.  
“I came to ask for you another dance, Your Grace.”, a nobleman announced. His mask declared him to be the head of the House Chevin, one of the major houses in Celene’s northern supporters.  
“It’s very rude of you, de Chevin. We already danced twice. You can hardly ask me for a third in front of my fiancée.”, the Duke said, his eyes behind his ironbark mask turning colder while he nodded slightly towards Dirthamen.  
“That one? A bare-faced knife-ear trash is what you hide behind now, Tirashan?”, Marquis asked loudly.  
Falon’Din’s face turned red with anger, while Dirthamen was frozen on the spot, but the Duke was faster than either of them.  
“Choose a second, de Chevin.”, the Duke’s demand was loud enough to be heard over the excited chatter of their audience.  
“No!”, Dirthamen cried out, moving to pull back the duke before he made this worse, but Falon’Din grabbed his arm.  
“Shut up, brother.”, Falon’Din hissed at him, pulling Dirthamen against him and holding a hand over his mouth. “The Duke is defending our family honour, and the Marquis is too high ranking for me to challenge him.”  
“You challenge me to duel? Over a barefaced boy you won in game of dice from his father?”  
“I will not accept your apology, de Chevin, even if you attempted to make one. You offended my fiancé’s honour.”, the Duke said, pulling off his white long dancing glove. He dropped it at the Marquis’ feet. “I demand satisfaction.”  
There were chevaliers pushing towards them through the crowd.  
“Very well, Tirashan. I choose Comte Evram de Morrac as my second. I’m sorry to see you die.”, the Marquis said.  
“Comte Montsimmard. Would you be willing to act as my second and set a date with de Morrac?”, the Duke asked, not turning his head.  
“Of course, Your Grace.”, Falon’Din promised firmly, still holding Dirthamen who wanted to bite Falon’Din’s hand bloody, so his brother would let him go! Damn Falon’Din, and his stupid martial training!  
“Tirashan, as the commander of Chevaliers, I will oversee the duel, and ensure it is fought with honor.”, the Grand Duke Gaspard announced, standing with the Empress Celene, who watched the gathering. There was no surprise on her face, Dirthamen realized. It wasn’t an accident. The duke had been set up.  
“Death before dishonour.”, the Duke of Tirashan replied, and turned away, leaving the ball and the white glove behind.  


\--

It was terrible. The Duke, foolish, lying, audacious Duke was going to get killed. Dirthamen felt so sick he could barely eat, and his family enjoyed wholeheartedly their moment in the spotlight. The afternoon hours were filled with callers who had never visited the Evanuris Hall, but now proclaimed themselves dearest friends of their family.  It was not every day when a real duke announced his intent to marry their son, and then challenged another high noble in the most exciting duel of the Season to defend his honour!  
“One of them is certainly going to die!”, one of lady Evanuris’ crones announced enthusiastically.  
“Have you given thought to publishing the banns before the duel? Tirashan has no heir, and if he dies, your son might have a chance of inhering something. At least some pin money?”, another old lady suggested shrewdly.  
“Hellions like the Duke don’t live long. Which one is he? A boy, or a girl? Does your son know?”  
“Are they going to use pistols or swords? Swords make it last longer. I once saw a duel which took almost an hour before the challenger was impaled! Through his head, can you imagine? So disgusting, I almost fainted!”

Fleeing from the parlour into library did not help, because Falon’Din was there, cleaning their grandfather’s duelling pistols. The fine wooden case was covered in dust, and his brother said nothing when he pushed a rod inside the heavy barrel, scratching off the remains of old gatlook.  
“Those are almost hundred years old.”, Dirthamen felt like crying. “They won’t even work anymore. I thought they would use swords.”  
“It’s no good to pick swords when an opponent is much taller and larger than you.”, Falon’Din said, turning the barrel upside down and giving it a hard slap.  
“If it must be pistols, why those? A chevalier must own a pistol which doesn’t get jammed by old age!”  
“The Duke said it would not be honourable to use a pistol either of them has handled before. Defending our family honour with our family weapons is a nice touch.”  
“It isn’t nice! A nice thing would be not to die.”, Dirthamen yelled at his brother, his eyes filling with unwanted tears. “He can’t just go and get killed over a stupid plot like this!”  
Falon’Din put a rag down, looking Dirthamen.  
“I thought you didn’t like him.”, his brother said slowly.  
“I don’t! I hate him for doing this, and if he dies, I swear I will spit on his grave!”, Dirthamen shouted. His mind was in turmoil, and he didn’t know what to say to Falon’Din who looked at him with a question in his eyes.  
“I don’t know what to think. He’s too pretty for a man, and he smells lovely, and thinks I’m smart. He told father he would take my book collection as a dowry, so father couldn’t sell them, and he promised he would take the blame for ending the stupid engagement if I wanted, but I didn’t want it to end this way! He is not supposed to die for defending a slur! He will, I know he will, because he is audacious and a liar and a terrible trickster and just too brave for his own good!”, Dirthamen’s face twisted, and he blinked furiously to keep his tears from running. It was not manly to cry. Maker, now the stupid duke’s stupid engagement had made him weepy like a girl. The thought was the final straw, making Dirthamen burst into tears.  
“Hush. Hush.”, Falon’Din pulled Dirthamen into a hug, like he had done when they were five years old and too small to understand propriety. Dirthamen hid his embarrassed face against Falon’Din’s waistcoat shoulder and howled. Damn the duke for doing this to him! And damn him for choosing grandfather’s pistols which would only get him killed in the most honourable way.  
“Dirth, if you promise you won’t cry there, I can take you with me to the duel. They are meeting in an hour in the academy grounds. But you must promise not to cry.”  
Falon’Din stroked his weeping brother’s back.  
“Oh, Dirth, you got it bad. You’ve always been a bit weird, but you got it bad this time.”, he murmured.

 

His brother made him wash his face, change his waistcoat, and drink a whole glass of father’s dwarven whiskey down his burning throat before they slipped out from the library window to avoid the curious ladies gathered in mother’s parlour. It was the first time Dirthamen had entered the Academie des Chevaliers, but the sight of the proud walls did not cheer up his heart in slightest. Seeing his face, Falon’Din made him drink another mouthful from father’s dwarven whiskey bottle, saying that the Duke would not want him to weep for him before he was even dead! Dirthamen tried to tell Falon’Din that he was not weeping for the duke, but his brother just huffed and told him not to lie.  
  
When they arrived at training grounds, the Duke was already there with Grand Duke Gaspard, talking in a low voice. A coach with de Chalon’s heraldry was waiting close by, eight horses still harnessed.  
“I’m going to do the same thing as in Jader.”, Dirthamen heard the duke say quietly to Gaspard. “If he shoots me in head, it won’t work, of course.”  
“I hope not, gavroche.”, the Grand Duke said. He pulled a tiny vial from his pocket, and offered it to the duke, who drank it. The duke grimaced at taste, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  
“Tastes like dwarf’s balls every time.”, he muttered.  
Turning to see Falon’Din and Dirthamen, the duke’s face lit up.  
“I didn’t think you would come.”, he said, striding towards Dirthamen. The duke took his hands in his, smiling.  
“I don’t want you to do this.”, Dirthamen said sullenly, and Falon’Din discreetly withdrew, asking Gaspard to check the pistols.  
“Don’t you worry.”, the duke said, still that bright, happy on his face. He wore a man’s clothes again, and his red hair was neatly braided, but Dirthamen found the blue of his eyes still beautiful. “I’m a chevalier. I know how to shoot.”  
“You were set up.”, Dirthamen sniffed. “And you walked straight into a trap!”  
“I’m not very good at the Great Game, actually. Chalons and I share the distaste. It would be much easier to avoid traps if I had you to warn me.”, the duke smiled. His eyes became serious, and he added: “I’m… honoured you came. I wasn’t sure if you would, but if I die, I’ll be happy to have seen you for one last time.”  
Dirthamen huffed.  
“If you wanted to see me more, not dying would work.”  
“Truly?”, the duke asked.  
“Yes.”, Dirthamen replied grudgingly. “I don’t want to marry a man, I don’t like this, and I’m very, very angry at you right now, but you have sneaked under my skin somehow. I find myself quite upset at thought of you dying.”  
There was that look again. The faint blush of pink on the duke’s cheeks, and slightly parted lips, blue eyes looking at Dirthamen like he was the most wonderful thing in the world. Dirthamen sniffed, feeling the hollowness in his heart growing. There was a drop of something blue on the Duke’s lower lip, and Dirthamen raised his hand to wipe it away. Before his fingers touched the Duke’s lips, he glanced at Falon’Din and Gaspard, who were taking the pistols out from the box, and a wave of anger, fear and something desperate came over him. Dirthamen grabbed the Duke and kissed him before he had a chance think of it through. It wouldn’t matter if he died, and they were engaged (even if he was a man).  
The duke’s lips were soft, and warm. Much softer than Dirthamen would have thought. It didn’t feel bad, or wrong at all. It felt wonderful. Like there were butterflies in his blood.  
He never wanted it to end, but Falon’Din was there, clearing his throat.  
“It’s time.”, his brother said. “Chevin is here with his second.”  
The Duke pulled away from Dirthamen’s arms, and his stupid, valiant heart was in his eyes when he looked at Dirthamen.  
“V _henan_.”, the duke said. Dirthamen didn’t know the word, but his heart whispered it when he watched the Duke walk to meet the Marquis and choose his weapon.  
  
A sun came out through the clouds, and the Duke took off his red waistcoat, giving it to Falon’Din to hold. He stood on the training ground in white loose shirt and calfskin breeches, holding grandfather’s pistol in hand, and Dirthamen had never seen anything so beautiful. Or painful.  
“The duel is fought to death. The Empress gave her permission to duel, if the opponents take alternate shots.”, the Grand Duke said.  
Alternate shots? Dirthamen had never paid much attention to military, since his interests laid in obscure fields like magical history, but it did not sound good.  
“I agree her Imperial Radiance’s gracious terms. The challenged fires first?”, the Marquis asked, smiling.  
“Yes.”, Gaspard said grimly.  
This was an execution, Dirthamen realized. It was an execution, where the Empress Celine paid back for duke’s ploy of securing his inheritance by setting up a duel where the Marquis would shoot first. Hitting a still, standing, unarmoured target was not a feat of much skill, and the outcome was clear. Duelling pistols had heavy bullets, and the damage was terrible.  
“You should try to shoot me in heart. For posterity.”, the Duke smiled. “A shot through a heart would make this duel into much better story than a dying of infected stomach wound. A headshot is messy, and not very romantic.”  
“I will do my best to fulfil your last wish.”, the Marquis promised. “Now ready yourself to meet the Maker.”  
“Three. Two. One. Fire.”, Comte de Morrac, the Marquis’ second counted.  
The duke stood, proud and unafraid, still that blasted smile on his face, and when the count reached ‘Fire’, Dirthamen’s heart skipped a beat. He saw the smile vanish from the duke’s face, and pearly teeth biting hard on lips he had just kissed. His whole body shook, the force of the bullet almost falling him, and the hollow in Dirthamen’s heart took hold. The field was silent for a moment, and everyone’s eyes were on the duke, whose white loose shirt was blooming with red, and the red flower was spreading.  
“Good shot.”, the duke said, his voice hiss of pain. Somehow, he managed to stay on his feet despite his unsteady body, and he raised grandfather’s pistol, pointing it at Marquis, who was far less flamboyant now, realizing there was going to be a second shot. It was a fearsome thing to stand and look death in the eye, Dirthamen thought, watching the duke’s hand tremble as he aimed the Marquis and pressed the trigger. The harsh sound of Evanuris’ duelling pistol rang again, and the Marquis fell in a burst of flesh, blood and bone.  
The duke had shot him in head.

His face had a greyish tint, and when Dirthamen knelt to pull the dying duke in his arms, the red bloom of the duke’s blood wet his arms. His lips were moving, and Dirthamen bent his head to hear what he was trying to say.  
“.. _ladara ara’lan_..”, the duke whispered, almost begging. “ _Ladara ara’lan._ ”  
His fading eyes flashed blue, and the duke’s body jerked violently, causing Dirthamen almost lose his grip. The duke’s skin was so hot that it burned Dirthamen’s hands through the wet shirt. He heard chink of something falling, and then Gaspard du Chalons pushed Dirthamen aside.  
“We need to get him to medic.”, the Grand Duke barked, taking the duke from him and shouting orders to his servants. Gaspard carried the duke inside a coach, and the driver lashed the great horses, sending them to mad canter.  
  
There was something shiny on the bloody ground. Dirthamen picked it up with fingers stained in red. It was a bullet. The bullet Marquis had shot in the Duke. He quietly closed his fingers around it and didn’t tell anyone.

\--

Three weeks after the famous duel, Mr. Dirthamen Evanuris married His Grace the Duchess of Tirashan, Roshan Lavellan in de Chalons family chapel. The ceremony was simple and very private. The banns had been quietly read on three separates Sunday in the empty chapel, and the Orlesian law required only two more things for a matrimony. The ceremony was to be held between 8AM and noon - the Empress Celine’s new edict had lessened the numbers of accidental marriages between young adventurous men and their night-time darlings –  and; the two witnesses law required were the groom’s brother, Comte Montsimmard and the master of the house, the Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons. After the Chantry Mother, grooms and the witnesses signed the marriage register at the chapel, the newlyweds retired to a guest suite to enjoy a wedding breakfast. The Duke was set on returning to his ancestral lands on the following morning, and the contents of his townhouse were being emptied into carriages, boxes and trunks, making it unsuitable for the occasion.

The duke wore his white muslin frock, and the morning sun brought much needed warmth to his overly pale complexion. He frowned at his porridge, and reached over the table to get honey, much too easily for a man who had been shot in the heart three weeks ago. Dirthamen watched him ration two spoons worth of honey into his porridge, and then nibble it with disinterest.  
“Now that we are married, you need to stop your constant trickery.”, Dirthamen said.  
“What do you mean, vhenan?”, the duke inquired.  
Dirthamen put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a shining little piece of metal. He held it between his fingers, looking sternly at the Duke, who had grace to blush.  
“You were shot to the heart, and here is the bullet, but you did not die. How some words, a flash of blue and a burning skin can push out a bullet from a person’s heart and save him from certain death? I want to know.”  
The duke put his spoon down, putting his elbows on the table, and leaned towards Dirthamen. He was so close that Dirthamen could feel the warmth of his breath against his ear.  
“Magic.”, the duke whispered in his ear.  
“Truly?”, Dirthamen breathed, astonished and thrilled at the same time.  
“The war between Elves and Men did not reach every corner of the world. It never came to my forest. There is plenty of ancient and uncanny in Tirashan. I think you might like it there.”, the duke said thoughtfully.  
Dirthamen remembered the stories of deep woods and silent servants, and the Duchess of Tirashan who had wed a Fade spirit, giving birth to daughters with magic in their blood. His heart beat faster with excitement when he thought of deep, dark woods of Tirashan, and wonders he might find there.  
“I think I will.”, he said. “But the story of the Horned Lord... Brother Genitivi wrote that his daughters carried magic in their blood.”  
“True.”, the duke said, pushing his porridge away and nibbling a strawberry.  
“But you are a man.”, Dirthamen stated.  
The duke looked at him.  
“What?”, he asked, an incredulous look on his face.  
“The story says that—”  
“Yes, I know what the story says, but I’m not a man.”, the duke interrupted. “You found out I wasn’t and told me that you would not marry me under false pretences, and because you were so intelligent and handsome and adorable, I gave up and stopped lying.”  
Dirthamen opened his mouth and closed it.  
“I have a different understanding of what happened. You are a man, and I married you despite it. Like I told you, you got under my skin despite the fact I did not wish to marry a man. When I thought you were going to die, I understood I loved you, and couldn’t imagine living without your lies, tricks and foolhardy bravery. No matter what you were.”, he said, taking the duke’s hand.  
The duke looked put out.  
“It is very sweet that you love me so greatly.”, he began, “but you have misunderstood everything, vhenan. I’m not a man. I just pretended to be, so I would not be harassed in Academie des Chevaliers.”  
“I’m sorry, my dear, but you can’t fool me anymore. I love you, but I know the difference between men and women.”  
The duke’s jaw set in stubborn way, and he pulled his hand away from Dirthamen’s. He reached behind his back, attempting to work the little buttons on his frock.  Losing his patience, the duke muttered old words under his breath and Dirthamen’s eyes widened a bit when the buttons popped out, flying across the room.  
“If you don’t believe me after this, I don’t know what else to do.”, the duke announced. He stood up and pulled the layers and layers of muslin and silk off his shoulders, letting them fall on the floor.  
Her shoulders, Dirthamen’s mouth was suddenly dry. Hers.  
  
His wife, the Duchess of Tirashan, stood naked in the breakfast room, looking a bit angry, much embarrassed and more than a bit of stubborn. There was an angry red bullet scar on her chest, and seeing it made Dirthamen find the right words for this. The ones she needed to hear.  
“You are beautiful.”, he told honestly. “You are the most beautiful woman, and I am the happiest man in the world to have you. I hope you can forgive me for being a fool.”  
His wife bit her lip.  
“You didn’t wish to marry a man, even though you married me.”, she began hesitantly. “Did you wish to marry a woman, then, or is there something else you would prefer? I know I’m not supposed to know how it works, but I do; men speak about these things. In the army, there was this one man who preferred mabari, and..”  
“No!”, Dirthamen stood up and quickly caught his wife in his arms, striding towards the next room in haste. “I won’t let us get tangled into another misunderstanding where you think I like mabari or beaded lamps or something very odd when I only want you.”  
“Are you certain?”, her voice was first bright with laughter, and then shy.  
“I will show you.”, he promised. “I will show you, until there is no doubt of my love for you.”


End file.
